Torn and Frayed
by scriggly
Summary: What goes on in Mycroft's head when Sherlock slams him against the wall. WARNING for incestuous thoughts and Season Three Spoilers.


"Bye bye," Sherlock says dismissively, all but kicking Mycroft out.

Mycroft won't challenge Sherlock this time. He can see how exhausted Sherlock is, and he wants his little brother to rest. At least until Mycroft is back with a private doctor for the myriad different tests necessary to his peace of mind after Sherlock's idiotic foray into a crack house _again_. Then there's the whole matter of Magnussen. If Mycroft hadn't been shaking with relief at having Sherlock home safe and not overdosed somewhere, he would've actually used his brain instead of idiotically ordering his brother to stay away from Magnussen. He might as well have dropped his only brother into Magnussen's lap, given Sherlock's reliable tendency to do exactly the opposite of what Mycroft asks him.

Still, he has some time before Sherlock actively seeks out Magnussen. His little brother looks a fright; at the very least he will soak in the tub once. He might even drain the tub and refill it for a more enjoyable, clean soak. He struggles to escape the mental image unfolding in his head: Sherlock shedding the ugly casual wear off his slender frame and stepping into the tub. Mycoft's brain threatens to short-circuit at the idea of all that wet, glistening forbidden pale skin turning rosy as Sherlock scrubs his body, the warm water lapping his…

Mycroft grasps at his ugly fear of possible used syringes and fatal viruses to quell the images, but Sherlock is standing in front of him, breathing and safe and bossy and petulant and… lovely, and Mycroft really needs to let Sherlock kick him out of the flat this time before he gives himself away. His hand itches to haul John Watson and drag him out of the flat with him. He wonders bitterly just how private Sherlock is around his secret, "straight" crush. Has John ever walked in on Sherlock in the shower? Has he ever heard Sherlock bringing himself off? Thankfully his brain shies away violently from more intimate, deliberate scenarios, and his pulse calms down.

For the millionth time, Mycroft cringes at his inexcusable miscalculation in reading John. He has never imagined Sherlock's soldier would turn out to be a coward, not bothering to check on Sherlock by phone even once for an entire month, only to sarcastically point out his missing chair when he finally deigns to set foot in Baker Street again. Mycroft's heart bleeds for Sherlock: What kind of ache could've driven his brilliant brother to the very obvious step of removing the chair? As if that isn't enough, John then ignorantly attempts to ridicule Mycroft's threat, as if Mycroft couldn't wipe him off the face of the earth along with his former assassin of a wife swollen with their hateful spawn. He wonders bitterly how he could have possibly misread the only man who has effortlessly stolen his brother's brain and heart.

He recalls those precious few hours after bringing his brother back from the dead. How completely happy Mycroft had been, having Sherlock all to himself in his office even as his little brother prepared to return to London, unable to wait one day longer to see John. Not for the first time, Mycroft wonders how his heart takes all this without missing one beat. Losing all but the most pitifully sporadic contact with Sherlock for two years, leaving queen and country behind and rushing to Serbia upon locating Sherlock there, nearly going out of his mind trying to actually reach Sherlock undercover, laying eyes on Sherlock after two long years to find him bloody, beaten, tied up, and starved. Summoning all his strength to stay silent and watch his beloved brother endure more torture less than a few feet away from him, and finally, finally smuggling Sherlock out and landing on English soil. Arranging his nearly unconscious little brother on the car backseat, gently laying Sherlock's dear head in his lap, carding his trembling fingers through Sherlock's curls, and trying to swallow back his heart and ignore the tears gathering behind his closed eyelids. Undressing and bathing Sherlock with his own hands, seeing first hand the damage that was done to his brother's gorgeous ethereal skin and choking on the bile in his throat, drying him gently with fluffy towels and tucking him into his own bed. Sitting for hours drinking in the sight of his exquisite features in repose, quietly padding out of the room only when Sherlock slowly began to regain consciousness.

For all his brilliant observational skills, Sherlock will never pick up on something Mycroft hides intentionally, and he has buried this… enslaving love for his little brother under every camouflage he knows. It is Mycroft's single best guarded secret, feeding his cherished vivid fantasies of Sherlock, where he is free to kiss his gorgeous brother senseless, embrace him like a lover, come undone at his feet. In Mycroft's fantasies he swallows Sherlock whole, makes love to him slowly, tenderly, gets drunk on the taste of his skin as he whispers in Sherlock's ear how much he loves him. In his fantasies, Sherlock looks at him with eyes that have never longed for John, tells him he doesn't find Mycroft repulsive or perverted or evil, kisses him back, laces their fingers together, lies on the bed and pulls his big brother onto him, and welcomes Mycroft's feverish thrusts into his body, nibbles and licks into his mouth, and pulses hotly against Mycroft's skin, and Mycroft shatters.

It is precisely those cherished, dearly protected fantasies that are to blame for what happens next. Mycroft is literally dragging his feet, still unable to shake the bone-deep relief at having Sherlock safe and sound here at Baker Street. The terror he'd felt when John called… For the first time since a lifetime ago, when he discovered he had fallen under Sherlock's spell and there was no going back, Mycroft fails to tear his eyes from his brother's precious, sulking face to guard his secret from Sherlock and, much more importantly, John. Uncharacteristically he blurts out the first thought that comes to his mind, "Unwise, brother mine."

In a flash he is slammed against the door jamb, his arm twisted painfully behind his back. Sherlock's body pinning him, surprisingly strong and warm, his ragged breath hot on the nape of Mycroft's neck. And in a flash he is rock hard, so sudden he is dizzy with lust. Sherlock's scent wafts out through the various smells from the crack house and fills Mycroft's nostrils. Mycroft's heart hammers alarmingly against his chest. Sherlock's deep baritone grazes his ears and swirls silkily through and around him. His arm is twisted painfully behind his back and Sherlock is unwittingly about to threaten him to completion. He barely registers Sherlock's actual words as they morph dangerously into one of his many fantasies, softening the edges of the harsh, empty reality where he pines after his little brother while his brother pines after a married, confused coward of an ex-soldier.

John's voice floats closer, something about shutting up and leaving. Reality suddenly slaps him alert when Sherlock's warmth disappears and John's tedious face materializes slowly in front of him, mouth moving… Oh, repeating his orders to Mycroft, as if John's rightful place is between Mycroft and his brother, as if John doesn't appal by breaking his brother's heart and marrying a former assassin then disappearing from Sherlock's life for an entire month. Intense hatred for this nondescript broken man roils through him. He is so shaken by the whirlpool of emotion he can't speak, can't even order John to find his umbrella. John eventually catches on, handing him his umbrella and looking expectantly at Mycroft.

Mycroft realizes he has to leave now, and the realization guts him so viciously he almost howls with frustration. He misses Sherlock's proximity so badly it's physically painful. For a horrifying moment, Mycroft is on the verge of tears. He forces his legs to move and they mercifully obey him, and he goes down the stairs in a daze. He wonders how his body knows to step regally out of the house and into the car, impeccably put together to the rest of the world, when the cold, hard truth is he is hopelessly broken. Only he knows, as he locks the doors to his mansion's private wing and slinks dejectedly into his bedroom. Inside the cocoon of his blankets, he stares into the darkness and helplessly relives the incident with Sherlock, reveling in the vivid memory of his brother's angry warmth and sullen, beloved face. Torn and frayed, he picks the memory apart and weaves it into yet another fantasy where Sherlock can be his.


End file.
